Housing

A crane stands in a hollow, where there was once a small apartment building. Families lived there. One family moved quite suddenly. They were there, then they were gone. Like the building. Like the family’s daughter found in a box in the closet after the parents disappeared. She is gone, the family is gone, the building is gone. No matter what fills up this particular hole in the ground on East Union, I will remember. Sometimes hollow places are sacred.